Touched
by Chidi
Summary: Short story set in Orlais.


**Touched**

Ser Breddon had felt something hot in his chest. The feeling only expanded when he breathed in, as if his exhalations only brought more fire to his nostrils, his lungs. Worse, he was traveling alone and disguised. He had always been strong and often worked alone, which had been a source of secret pride. Other templars would never leave the shadow of the White Spire in anything but packs but then, most were dimmer than mabaris. Still, the Knight-Captain knew that not all work could be accomplished in a place like Val Royeaux by braying hounds. That was the work that Breddon was given: the delicate, the difficult, the unnameable. Yet each morning, he could feel the beginning of the inevitable decay of his joints in a burst of fire and ache. Fortunately, the pain dissipated by the time the sun had risen. The order still had its uses for him, and that confidence made him feel like a young man on his first legs instead of an old man with stiff knees. But this new fire in his chest frightened him like the onset of mid-age did not. Like any hale man, he detested illness, but when he felt his forehead, slick with sweat and fever, he was wily enough to admit his enemy—if not defeat.

He didn't feel the autumn chill in the air. Nor did he appreciate the view, which gave him cusps of trees, leaves and their brilliant hues. The scenery seemed just a red-orange blur, and so he concentrated on the constant plod of the horse's shod hooves on the packed dirt of the trail. He tried to grip the bridle more tightly, his bulk suddenly plummeted forward. Breddon felt weightless, like a bird, for a moment before the rush of the ground seemed to spring up and smack his jaw with the force of a great, slashing claw. Then he saw nothing, but he still felt the heat; it lingered like a bad memory, the way the outline of a cheekbone or a curve of lip in a strange face could remind him of faces he'd rather not remember.

When he woke, he was lying down. The only light came from the crack of door, which then opened. He closed his eyes, feigning slumber, but he braced his legs against the heavy, wooden bedposts as the door swung inward. A figure shuffled heavily into the room before the door closed again.

Someone walked to the hearth, for Breddon heard coals sputter sparks and debris as logs were stirred, increasing the scent of woodsmoke in the room. As he was trying to tally the best way to overtake this person, such as, perhaps, forcing some appendage into the fire, a hand touched his forehead. It was cool and smooth. And he could tell by the feel, by the touch— _her _smell—that she was tidy. And female. He definitely remembered that smell.

She removed a poultice of dried herbs from his head and placed another, washing his face and neck in the process. He watched her. Her hair was tied back with a kerchief, but strands escaped as she moved around him as she touched his forehead and prayed to Andraste to heal the stranger who the Maker brought to her door. _Brown_, he thought as a strand brushed his nose.

He sneezed—and prayed he didn't get snot on her hair.

The woman pulled back, but not before meeting his eyes for a brief space as if hadn't sneezed at all. She pushed the stray lock behind her ear, which was small and pale. As her hand traveled across her face, he noticed a beauty mark below her lower lip, lightly freckled skin.

It was his duty to notice, yes. Still, when her hand left his face, his instinct was to grab it. Instead, he touched the hair on his chest. It was starting to gray. He shouldn't be so weak.

"Tea, messier?"

Breddon nodded. The woman kept her eyes in her task rather than him, but he could sense the tension in his limbs, his own embarrassment at being woken up like this, groggy, vulnerable. And yet, he kept watching her. Most women he came across were celibate, cursed, paid, or apostate. He hadn't had a woman just touch without a motive—ever. And so he noticed her, the long curve of her...And a fire he thought was long dead stirred.

He took the cup of tea with trembling hands.

Breddon found excuses to stay for three days. His fever left with the same speediness with which it came. In his line of work, he was suspicious of such miracles, for they usually implied the hand of a mage at work rather than The Maker's. He used his ability to uncover magic-use, but she gave him none of the uneasiness he felt around mages. She told him that she found him lying in a ditch, and called for a neighbor with a wagon to take him to her home. She knew herb lore, but only to ease labor pains or more general maladies. When he asked her why he recovered, she shrugged.

"He didn't want you to die," was all she said, meeting his eye. For her, that was enough.

And it was enough for Breddon. She was a widow, which was further information he found difficult to be impartial about. Like her name. Ada. He liked the roll of it.

The disguised templar also steadied himself for questions, but Ada didn't prod him for information, nor did she seem to engage in small talk. She only asked questions when he had already breached the topic. Instead of being suspicious, Ada seemed to respect privacy, saw it as a kind of kindness. And the questions she did ask were to the point and intelligent. He didn't want to think of her alone in this cottage, on the fringe of this town. She should be in the capital. She should be safe. She should be...regarded.

Then reality would spoil the idea. He couldn't take Ada to the city, but he couldn't tell her what he was. And so Breddon strayed.

One evening, they sat beside the fire, drinking autumn ale. There was a space between them to fit the hem on the divan, but it was a companionable distance for each.

They spoke of "the troubles." That was unsurprising. Breddon knew what the unspoken, furtive glances in his Knight-Captain's eyes were really about over the last few years: loyalties. Breddon wasn't vocal about which side he stood for. And he wouldn't be. Silent by nature and by habit, he found himself at the receiving end of various opinions, but when it came to the 'mage question,' all he cared about was his job. Once, when he was of an age to be taken to his father's trade, Breddon had pulled away from the grimy, smelly tools, but his father forced them into his hands, _"It don't matter what you do, boy. Only that ya do it well."_

He leaned toward her and folded hands too big to ever fit inside chimneys across his lap, "What do you think of magic?"

Ada made the Maker's sign in the air, "All magic is the bad kind, Ser." She swilled her ale, motioned for him to get closer, "Even here, it comes...There is a girl does things she should not, but she can't help it. She is touched since she was a babe. Her parents, when they saw that she was simple, died of grief. Some even say that they turned to other powers..." She rolled her eyes, "The Ser doesn't need to hear the gossip of old women —"

"The Ser would like to hear."

Ada nodded. Her lips crinkled as she adjusted her head-scarf, and then, when the hair wouldn't stay bound, she removed it. She took out a comb and brushed as she spoke, "Very well. The other story is that the girl's parents prayed to the Maker for a child, but He denied them, and so they made an offering to the Old Witch, to Flemeth. And she answered. They would have a child, but there would be a price. There is always a price in these stories. When the baby was born a healthy girl, Flemeth came for her, but the parents would not part from their child. So Flemeth killed them and cursed the child out of spite."

Instead of replying, the templar took a long drink of ale. It had been a long trip, and this ale, yeasty, thick-headed, was the best he had tasted that season in the capital or in the countryside. _Ale,_ his best friend in the order had often said, i_s one of the few consolations we have for giving up girls. _

_ Small consolation indeed, _Ser Breddon thought as he finished a second, and then a third. The drink made his life as a templar seem far away. Like another man had lived it in another life.

He watched his hand stroke Ada's brown hair as if it were someone else's. It was more real than anything he had ever held.

"Messier," the way she said the title made the words stretch out across her tongue, "do not do anything you will regret tomorrow." It was a warning, yet Ada did not pull away.

"I have fallen in love with you."

"In three days?"

"No. In one. But it took me two more to be certain."

To be a templar was to be set apart, above, for only the order could curb the power of mages, which was the duty of the Chantry. Ser Breddon was grateful the shield he wore on his back, the armor he wore on his body, but some days... That same duty could force him to kill this child, but he wasn't as hard as the metal that encased and protected him. He preferred not to kill children: apostate, dull-witted, or otherwise. But would he hesitate?

Breddon looked down: Ada was under the bedclothes, one shoulder stuck free, exposed. Even the matted hair that fell over her face was charming. "I have to go meet her...the girl," she yawned.

"Let me," he touched her shoulder and traced the imprint of freckles across the back of her shoulder-blade.

She sighed beneath the pressure of his hands, "Alright. She's probably crossing the field, if you want to meet her there."

As Breddon dressed, he imagined what his life might be like to wake everyday with Ada. It was rare, but templars could marry. _Small steps,_ Breddon thought. That means telling her, which he wanted to put off, Maker, as long as possible.

Autumn was not the best time to find love. Too many things were dying. Too many things began out of desperation—against the dying of the year. Where had he heard that? It certainly didn't sound like something he would think of on his own. Memories were tricky, though. He might feel like the hero of his own life, but everyone thought that. Those that didn't were the miserable, the crazed. And so Breddon felt the imprint of his feet on the dying grass, the feel of the slight wind in his nose, the smell of musty leaves and columbine: all these were for him and Ada.

The girl lay on her back in the field to the north of the cottage. She was easy to spot in her white dress amid the fallen leaves. She was plaiting her hair with various leaves and the columbine's violet blossoms. She wore the white, linen headband that he had seen on every unmarried country girl. The hair was fair that she braided, but it was a dull color, like the color of bare tree branches. Deft, peasant hands braided the blossoms and leaves that would fall with every movement of her neck. Then she would start all over: pulling, braiding, and re-braiding in a fevered intensity.

She didn't seem to notice Breddon. He knew of many who would have already killed or taken advantage of this. But that wasn't Ser Breddon. He had decided long ago that magic that was the real danger, not people. Most mages were only vessels; they couldn't help their nature, just as he could not help his.

"The Maker speaks to me," she said suddenly, smiling at him. Her teeth were even and bright. That smile was the only hint or promise of beauty she had. Or was that merely a trick of memory? He had seen so many..._No,_ he thought as she went back to plaiting.

"What does The Maker say, child?"

"Spiders, snakes, and snails…if I tattle, I'll die 'til I'm dead," the girl placed her finger to the dimple of her upper lip, as if to silence him or her own noise. Then she closed her eyes and sang a song that Breddon had sung when he was her age but then forgot:

_ We sing to be seen._

_ We sing to get a sigh._

_ But only the song The Maker hears_

_ is a lullaby. _

The girl wasn't bothered by the dead grass that clung to her mud-stained dress. She giggled as she stood, hugging herself and twirling as sang faster and faster until she was a whirl of gibberish and white linen.

Though he was more than twice her size, Breddon shivered. He reminded himself that he had taken his Vigil before this girl had been born. He knew what would happen to her. She wouldn't survive a Harrowing and that would be for the best. The world had been through Blight and war. The last thing he, or any templar, needed was another batty mage that he would have to Tranquil. To kill—

"Shh," she muttered as a finger traced her lips, "...such naughty, naughty thoughts."

The templar stepped toward her and focused his mind. He struck his large fists together. A disturbance spread from his gauntlets outward, making a sound like the rush of an arrow as it whizzes through atmosphere. The hairs on his forearms, his legs, bristled with some animal instinct of "wrongness," the way magic always felt like to him.

No longer able to see his thoughts, the girl fluttered her hands and stomped her feet.

Breddon smiled at her child-like tantrum and tapped his index finger to his forehead, "Your magics can't touch me, girl."

The girl's head rotated on her neck, as if she plucked the deepest part of him. Then, she curved her hands as if her fingers culled images from the air between them, "Yer hands...black hands. " She looked at her own fingers and wiped them on her white dress, "He sees. He knows. Oh yes, the wind tells him what ya've done."

Breddon's face went as yellow as the leaves that fell from her hair..._Maker, what will I tell Ada?_

Suddenly, the girl screamed. Her hands found the Maker's symbol that hung from his neck. Ser Breddon swiped, but he couldn't pry off her fingers. The girl moved and flailed, the grip tightened. Soon, Breddon was panting. His head seemed to hang over a great precipice. Only the girl's grasp on the chain reminded him of the tie between head and body—a tie quickly fading. He could only moan silently as tears came to his eyes. He could hear his heart slacken, then silence. Then he felt nothing. Breddon was nothing.

The girl looked into a corpse's bloodied eyes. She freed her small hands from the necklace, which had become entangled, marring the skin on her hands. She arranged and rearranged the broken chain, but it slid off its chest, spiting all her efforts to keep it straight.

_Shh._ The girl whispered as she placed her finger over lips now stiffened.

She loosened a wretched squall that was neither animal nor anything that passed for human speech. It was a sorrow that went deeper than species. Deeper than heat and blood, thought and bone.


End file.
